


deviancy

by stellatiate



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:37:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellatiate/pseuds/stellatiate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which katara takes control, zuko seeks retribution, and everyone's sore in the end. not safe for work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	deviancy

**Author's Note:**

> this is for my ultimate senpai beanaroony, who asked for domtara cough orgasm control cough. i only do what my senpais ask of me, yes.

“Do you like my dance?” She asks innocently, turns to look at him over her shoulder, her hair lashing against his chest. Zuko’s teeth are gritted together and he jerks his hands to rattle his restraints in frustration.

He had thought that it was rather harmless when Katara said she wanted to dance for him, something sweet and cultural and innocent.

But what she’s doing now, now that she’s barely dressed and quite a sight to behold, he’s aware that it’s not innocent _at all_. She grinds her hips into his lap to a rhythm that taps out in her head, and she threads her fingers through her own hair, slow and sultry, and Zuko groans through the space of his teeth.

“Fuck,” he hisses and she grins, slowing her pace but throwing her hips back into his with a little more pressure, and he’s willing to bet she can feel his erection pressed under her thighs because it’s _torturing_ him. She lifts herself from his lap for a moment, swings her leg over his hip so she’s facing him, and plops down again.

“Do you want to _touch me_?” She whispers, pressing her hips down into his lap and he moans because he can’t stop himself, because he can feel that heat and warmth and they’re lined up _perfectly_. Zuko pushes his hips up into her and she gasps before she clamps a hand down on his hip. “Bad,” she gasps, and he smirks in the knowledge that she’s reeling from the sensation just as much as he is.

Katara grates her hips into him with her hands pressed into his hipbones to keep him still, but it doesn’t stop his body from bucking underneath her and all of that heat that he wants so desperately to sink into. “Just tell me, because I know you want to touch me,” she teases, leaning her forehead against his.

Zuko bites his bottom lip and growls at her, fights against the pressure of her hands on his hips. “I want to _fuck_ you,” he snaps back at her, “so just _let_ me.” She laughs, gripping the hem of his pants and tugging them past his waist.

“I don’t know if I should let you,” she says, trails her fingers down his chest and he growls, tossing his head back.

“Please,” the words strain against his throat, “ _please_ let me.”

Katara lets her fingers fall into his lap and she traces her nails along the curves of his hips before she brushes them against that twitching length. Zuko doesn’t fight it any more; he just lets that awfully, strangled noise escape his lips because it’s what _she_ wants.

She smiles and wraps her hand around his cock, tugging slightly until the pressure becomes unbearable, until he’s hissing steam between his lips and his hips are jolting back and forth, desperately trying to create the friction that he needs from her. His wrists burn behind his back, secured in rope and ice, and he just wants to blaze through his restraints, just so he can _touch_ her.

Zuko cuts back on a scream when she moves, pulls her hand away from his length and moves a distance away from him. She is torturously beautiful as she spins, dipping her hips from side to side, and he runs his tongue over suddenly dry lips.

Twirling, her hair fans out as she steps close to him again, her hands splayed on her bare stomach, hips still twisting, and _fuck_. She moves back to where he’s tied and straddles his lap, her hips winding over his erection but her hands holding his hips in place.

“I thought about it,” she says with a smile, sliding her hands between their bodies. Her fingertips brush the tip of his length and he grunts, seizing underneath her, “and if you can behave, then I’ll give you what you want.” She parts her skirts and he wants to avert his eyes, but they drift down to watch attentively as she unknots her bindings from underneath her skirt, shifting in his lap.

Zuko isn’t sure that he _can_ behave, because each one of her movements is languid and slow, and his patience crushes under his arousal into tiny, miniscule grains. The cloth of her bindings brushes him as she strips it off, smooth brown skin that he can’t touch, and nothing feels worse to him than not getting what he wants.

And he wants this, he wants _her_ , so very badly.

Katara’s thighs part in his lap, wrenching around his hips powerfully, and she doesn’t push him inside of her the way he wants her to. She just continues her dance, instead rocking her hips forward and backwards until he can feel her warmth and her wetness sliding against his cock, and he tilts his head back, squeezing his eyes closed and letting a prayer full of swears escape his mouth.

She leans forward, her hair bristling against his chest, and fits her mouth on the curve of his throat, sucks until the pale skin pulses back at her, pink and radiant, and when she laughs, the sound travels down the base of his spine until his toes curl against the floor.

“Katara,” he pants, and her fingers on his hips can’t reign in this throbbing, molten heat and its pressure in his groin, and he can’t stop swiveling his hips against hers, even though his brain begs him to stop because the resistance is too much and he needs more than that. “Please, _please_ ,” his voice cracks when she pulls herself down hard in his lap, and something hisses behind him, burns against his wrists, and—

Katara shrieks when his hands come from behind his back to seize her hips and tilt his mouth against her chest, because his palms are hot, too hot, and she no longer has control of him the way she wants to.

But at this point, it hardly matters anymore, _nothing_ matters any more, with the way he turns and tosses her onto the bed, climbing over her and pinning his hips onto hers. He leans down to kiss her, the tangle of his bangs sticking to the sweat on his head, his lips hot and desperate and full of wanting that he wants to pour down her throat, warm liquid relief.

She flattens her palms against his chest as he kicks his trousers off, slides his hands up the silk of the robe still fastened around her, his hands cupping her breasts. Her chest arches into his palms and her hips push away from him, but he shifts forward onto his knees, presses the heat of his cock against her and she moans.

He can see the strain of it in her throat as she whines and her body animates with arousal, flexing and twisting underneath him, and he thrusts into her with trembling thighs and fire flickering between his lips.

“I don’t—” He starts, swearing abruptly when her fingers sweep down to claw at his hips, driving him closer, “—think I’m very well-behaved,” he punctuates, his fingers pinching against a nipple and Katara lets out a quiet squeak, shifting from side to side.

She pushes herself up onto her elbows, stares into his face for a moment before she coils an arm around his neck, brings their foreheads to touch. “Good,” her tongue darts out to swipe across his lips, “I don’t think I like it much.” Zuko focuses on her voice, on the slick warmth of her clenching and rubbing against him, and throws his head back and his hips forward.

Katara isn’t still either; she jerks her hips into his and wraps her fingers in his dark hair, peppers kisses against his shoulders, whispers taunts into his neck simply because she can.

And all Zuko can focus on in the faint goal of shutting her up, of fucking her until she can’t speak, because, “You should be punished for burning your restraints, Fire Lord Zuko,” and he wants to fuck her until she forgets about it.

So he ignores the way her skin reddens with each collision between them, slides his hands over her pert nipples and grips her hips so he can hold her still and bury this fervent warmth between her legs. She throws her other arm around his shoulders, clings to his body for dear life while tearing scratches in his back, and he grits his teeth into her ear, hissing from the pain but surprisingly ignorant to it because of the bliss of sex that covers his thoughts.

“I was nice,” he rasps in a low voice, slowing his pace for a few seconds, listening to the staccato beat of her breathing, “and I was obedient, and—”

Katara wiggles her hips until she slides down onto him again, tilting her head so her nose is buried in his hair and her lips ghost over his ear, “I forgive you,” she says softly, “so just do it, just take me.”

And there are no doubts, nothing to atone for, no rules to play by anymore.

He descends back into a steady rhythm, rocking back and forth until that heat bursts from inside of him, and he’s shuddering over her, “Fuck, fuck, oh my—” and Katara’s thin, cool fingers are raking his hair out of his eyes, cupping his cheeks so she can see the way his face coils from orgasm.

He leans back from her and shifts his fingers over her body, dragging them over the lines of her hips and over the curls of hair until he touches them to the tip of her clit and Katara seizes like she’s touched a live wire, and he massages his fingers against her, dipping his head down to drop kisses along her skin until she’s practically crying out her moans, limbs shifting back and forth.

Katara shrieks, high and long and throaty, before she falls still, shoves her palms into his hands and tries to squirm away from him and the overabundance of pleasure. Zuko crawls over her and collapses, fitting his face into the curve of her neck and sliding off of her body only to throw his leg over her possessively, whispering and kissing and just _breathing_.

“You’re terrible,” Katara murmurs as she lifts a hand to stroke his hair, smiling and drawing in careful breaths.

“Says the sexual tyrant.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean!?” She fires back, twisting in his grip so their noses are pressed together, but her incredulity fades at his smirk, which fades when she touches her lips to it.

“You like it, then,” she says, another chaste kiss to his lips before she curls into his chest, pulling his arm to drape over her, and all Zuko can do is grin and press his lips into her hair.

He’ll never admit it, but he _does_ like it when she makes him beg.


End file.
